Bull Mountain(28)

“We’re from Georgia.”

“Seriously, mister, I don’t give a f*ck where you’re from. Those are the rules.”

Val, who’d been silent up to this point, as if the conversation behind him wasn’t about him, finally turned around and sat down on the stool next to Gareth. Without saying a word, he reached into the shirt pocket of his flannel and pulled out a roll of cash the size of a fist. He peeled off a hundred-dollar bill and laid it on the bar. He let the weasel barkeep eyeball it, and Val watched his expression change from angry bigot to curious bigot.

“Mister,” Val said, tucking the rest of the bankroll back in his pocket, “I understand this is your place, and you have the right to run it however you see fit.”

“That’s right,” the bartender said, not taking his eyes off the prize on the bar.

“It’s also clear to me that you don’t like black people that much, and that, too, is your right, but I got to tell you, that remark about me being a gorilla was just downright mean. I’m not a gorilla, I’m a human being. And to be completely honest, that hurt my feelings a little bit.”

The barkeep said nothing but did shift his eyes from the cash to keep Val’s stare.

“I’ll get over it,” Val said, “I’m a big boy. No harm, no foul. But the thing is, my friend here is supposed to meet someone you apparently work for, and this is the place they chose to meet. So we’re kind of stuck.”

“Not my problem.”

“No, sir, no, it’s not. But all my friend here is asking for is one beer each to enjoy while we wait. We ain’t looking for no trouble. Just one beer each. That’s it.”

The bartender looked at Gareth, then back down at the hundred-dollar bill.

“I can’t break that this early in the day.”

“You can keep the change,” Val said.

The bartender breathed a heavy sigh under his massive mustache. “All right, then. One beer each, and if Oscar ain’t here by then, you’re waiting in the car.”

“That’s a deal,” Val said.

The bartender swept the cash up from the bar and stuck the bill in his own shirt pocket. He pulled two frosted mugs from the cooler and looked at them for a moment like he was considering something. He put one of them back and reached under the bar. He pulled out a red plastic cup from a sleeve, looked at Val with a contented smirk, and filled them both with draft beer. He set them on the bar, giving the glass to Gareth and the plastic cup to Val. “No sense in dirtying up a clean glass,” he said with a grin. Val stared at the cup and felt the tension increase in his jaw. Gareth felt it, too, because he put a hand on Val’s shoulder to calm him.

“Thank you,” Gareth said. The bartender just smiled and moved down the bar. Gareth picked up his beer, took a sip, and wiped foam from his beard. Val hesitated but sipped his, too. One of the bikers from the pool table, the meathead, approached the end of the bar.

“Everything all right over here, Pinky?”

“We’re all good, Rodd.”

“That him?” Rodd asked, tilting his head in Gareth’s direction.

“Yeah,” Pinky said. “That’s him.”

Rodd drummed his fingers on the bar and walked back to the table.

“Pinky?” Gareth whispered to Val. Val shrugged and both men picked up their beers. Gareth sipped his, but Val turned his up and finished it off in two large gulps. Gareth dropped his chin to his chest and sighed.

Pinky picked up the cup and tossed it in the trash. “Well, I guess you best be on your way, then,” he said. Val just stared at where the cup had been—the skin on his face tight.

Gareth wiped more suds from his beard and fished out a napkin from a plastic caddy. “Sure thing, Pinky,” he said, putting a hand up to take the bartender’s attention away from Val. “But can I ask you something first?”

“As long as he’s going.”

“You gotta tell me, what in God’s name is that infernal racket you got us listening to in here?”

Pinky looked jarred at that. “What, the music?”

“Is that what that is?” Gareth said.

Pinky listened again as if to confirm his answer. Ronnie Van Zant was pleading for just three steps toward the door.

“That’s Lynyrd Skynyrd,” Pinky said indignantly. “That’s the pride of Jacksonville. The greatest southern rock band in the world.”

Gareth scoffed and elbowed Val, who was still glaring down at the bar. “That ain’t no southern music I ever heard. Where’s the banjo, or the fiddle? It sounds more like a bunch of retards tryin’ to f*ck a doorknob.”

“Maybe it ain’t for you, Gareth,” Val said, still not looking up. “Maybe it’s only for pig-f*ckin’ faggots named Pinky.”

“What the hell?” Pinky said, and his face reddened like he’d just gotten slapped. “What did you say, boy?”

“And . . . that makes three,” Gareth said.

Pinky reached under the bar and came back with a wooden baseball bat, but for a big man, Val moved as fast as a cobra. He grabbed the bat with Pinky still attached and effortlessly yanked him into a head butt. The sound of Pinky’s nose breaking made Gareth wince. Pinky let go of the Louisville Slugger and stumbled backward into a row of liquor bottles. A few fell and crashed to the floor. Gareth spun around in his seat, his gun already out and trained on the two bikers, but they already stood holding their own weapons out.